


Sweet Treats

by Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers (writingfanfic)



Category: Impractical Jokers
Genre: Baking, F/M, Witchcraft, kitchen witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:13:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers
Summary: For the prompt: 'Can I request a sal x reader where she's a brilliant baker and he can't resist her sweet treats ?'Yes but the experience I have of baking is as a kitchen witch so this is whatcha get.





	Sweet Treats

“Please try them.”

Your boyfriend looks at you, and then his brow furrows.

“Did you just say ‘please’?” he asks, and you nod. “As if you’re gonna put a plate of cookies down in front of me and I’m gonna say ‘no, you know what, thanks, I’m watchin’ my weight.’ What kinda guy do you take me for?”

“My cookies might just be that bad,” you say, and he looks at you.

“As long as they’re not actually made with dog shit, I will probably eat ‘em. What’s in these ones?” he asks, and you set the plate down. Sal leans around them, surveying them from all angles. “Okay. No, you told me about these ones. Animal shapes, for… you told me this, it was on  _The_   _Big Bang Theory_ … Saturnalia?”

“He’s a good boy!” you grin. “Yes, they’re Saturnalia cookies.”

“You know, raised Catholic and stuff, when you told me about this kitchen witch shit, I kinda thought you were crazy.” He grabs a cookie, and look at the green and gold icing critically. “But this? I can live with this. You could fit in some dancing naked under the moon, if you like.”

“Hush,” you say, playfully. You thought your religion might be a point of contention when you first told him - three dates in, and he assumed you were going to inform him you were pregnant, so at least it wasn’t that, but you have to admit, he’s been very good about it. You might have to put a towel over some stuff when his mother comes over, but you suppose most couples have to hide stuff from their in-laws.

“So… is there anything to go with this?” he asks, and you grin.

“I am making a chicken pie.” He raises an eyebrow.

“And how is it magical? Tell me.” He puts his head in his hands, and you could swoon that this handsome bear of a man is fluttering his eyelashes at you. “Go on. I’m interested…!”

“Okay. So the salt is blessed and should be cleansing…”

“I do not like that connotation with my food, but go on,” he says, and you flick at him with the tea-towel. “Hey! That is not very chill or Saturnalia of you.” You roll your eyes, mumbling to yourself, and he narrows his eyes. “Is that a spell?”

“Give me strength isn’t a spell, it’s a plea, but anyway…” You look at your fingers. You have prepared this very carefully - so why can’t you remember what the hell is in it now. “Uh… the celery is for mental and psychic strength.” Sal is watching you. “Uh… I put some carrot in too, and that’s…”

“Seeing in the dark,” he jogs you, and you scrunch up your face at him.

“Healing, and funny enough, getting rid of negative energy, or  _seeing through the darkness_.” He points at himself, and grins widely.

“Am I good at this? Can I be a witch? Nah, my mom’d go absolutely fucking crazy.” You roll your eyes again. “Is that it?”

“No, there’s loads, but I’ll explain them all later if you’re going to be annoying about it,” you tease, and he sticks his tongue out at you. “Oh, hush. Expect more cookies all the way until Christmas, by the way…”

“Why else would I be dating you,” he teases back, and you can’t help but lopsidedly smile at him. “Well, one of your spells worked, at least. Because I love you.”

“As if I had to cast one,” you laugh, and lean across the counter to kiss him; his mouth tastes of icing, which is a nice side-effect. “Maybe you don’t get any of the Christmas pudding…”

He makes a noise of disappointment, and you smile. Well, it could be worse…


End file.
